“Our Irish tourists” (Blanche and her grandfather, a Mr. O’Rourke) “had already made quite a sojourn in Italy, and to the old gentleman’s astonishment, as he entered the coffee-room with his granddaughter leaning on his arm, both apparently fatigued after a long drive in the suburbs” (we are at a loss to understand whether the writer means by “suburbs” the suburbs of Italy or the suburbs of the coffee-room), “they observed a young man of prepossessing appearance seated at an opposite table, gazing at them very earnestly. His travelling companions were two ladies. One of them, though by no means elderly, might be taken for his mother; the other young and somewhat coquettish in manner—evidently his sister from the striking resemblance she bore him. All denoted the air of the Parisian.
“‘That gentleman must be going to make our acquaintance,’ said Blanche. ‘He must, I imagine, be dying to know us. All three are looking at us. I know they are French by the way they drink wine.’
“The party in question rose to adjourn to their apartments. As they left the room, Frank Mortimer—for such was his name—glanced several times at Blanche. She, of course, not condescending to notice the supposed curiosity, evaded it.”
Artful yet discreet Blanche! Of course she makes his acquaintance in the next page—we have only reached page 6 yet, so that it will be seen events move rapidly—and here is how she makes it:
“Having waited for some moments in the pretty boudoir, looking out on a veranda of orange-trees not yet in blossom” (we copy verbatim), “Blanche was humming one of her favorite airs, ‘Beautiful Isle of the Sea,’ which she imperceptibly changed to ‘Let each man learn to know himself.’ Frank entered on the words, and seemed slightly confused for an instant, but, quickly recovering his composure, he addressed his visitors with the ease and grace of a debonair.”
“May we not hope to meet ye in Paris?” is one of the questions put by the easy and graceful “debonair” to his visitors. He falls in love with Blanche, of course, though he confesses that he “almost fell in love once with a lady from South America,” and no wonder. “She was a most perfect creature in face and form; that delicate cast of countenance with an exquisite profile; hair that might be called golden, coiled on the tip of her head.”
The parting at the end of the first chapter, between Blanche and Frank, is not altogether as poetical as it might have been made. The train whistle interferes with it considerably. “A whistle, and all was confusion; everybody astir to get on board. A second one, and Frank started to take leave. He tried to speak, but it was impossible. His face quivered with emotion. He pressed the hand of Blanche in silence, and, darting out of the carriage, he encountered Mr. O’Rourke at the door. Bidding him a hasty farewell, he was soon lost in the crowd. ‘What a fool I am!’ he thought, ‘but I am human nature. Yet is it not a weakness to bow to its dictates? Should I ever meet that gifted creature again, I will tell her all....’ He wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, and, with a sigh, tried to forget his misery.”
What a fool he was indeed! Yet he said one sensible thing: “‘Oh!’ said Blanche, laughing, ‘am I not a favored child of fortune? When I go home I shall write a novel or some work of fiction.’
“Frank Mortimer smiled as the words fell from her lips. ‘Heaven save you,’ he said, ‘from such a fate!’”
Frank’s prayer was not heard, seemingly, and the result, we suppose, is Blanche Carey. We have not got beyond the first chapter of this fascinating “work of fiction,” and we are not likely to get beyond it. The reader may easily judge of its attractions by the extracts given, which were positively too tempting to pass by.